Always, My Love

“Get over it,”

some have had the guts to say.

“Move along with your life,”

others counsel.

“He’d want you to be happy,”

A few console.

Fourth anniversary here in a bit

I miss being your wife

The showers of love poems

Sweet and sappy

People who like me, a small council

But no one on Earth to touch my soul

Alone, no you to hold my hand

Sampling life’s wares

Many shores to meander

Sunsets seen with toes in sand

Postcards wishing you were there

Always, my love

My Life Purpose Really

Lately, nothing pleases me. I spent all morning searching for a jazz festival in the Caribbean; the Cuban Jazz Fest cheered me somewhat. How bummed must you be when planning a trip to one of the great jazz experiences on the planet doesn’t hit your yahoo button?

Maybe my biggest fault is that my love is not unconditional. I’m sorry, but it seems to me that the biggest spouters of unconditional love frequently treat each other like shit, alternating between hugging and hitting. The verbally unkind bring out the worse in me; sooner or later my mouth flies open and damage done.

Don’t call me stupid or don’t call me bitch; I would rather be alone than with a verbal abuser. Be kind or go home; it’s that simple.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot of kind people in the world. Every day I encounter lovely human beings. I have people I love and who love me up to the point of, “Oh, gee, that’s sad; I’m going to miss her. What’s for dinner?”

My ties to the planet slip away, the girl always on a crusade let go. My husband would have seen the change.

Entering that final act scares me, but not like I thought it would when I was young. The worse part of now isn’t being alone; it’s being without my husband. Without him, death will ultimately be welcomed. Thinking about it helps, as long as I don’t dwell on it. What’s funny is that I could never contemplate my husband’s death, but my own I can bear.

Even on those bad days when my honey’s death feels yet unbearable, I manage to occupy myself with a movie or planning a new adventure. Today nothing helps, I miss my man in my life; I could howl and cry. If you’ve ever gotten sick and tired of something, you know how this feels. Being tired of the hurt may be helping because I trying harder, yes, there I am; that’s me.

I believe in God, who teaches me to laugh at the bizarre happenings such as the president breaking past world leaders like he’s in grammar school.

Each life has lessons and purpose; God waited, for now, to give me my biggest life purpose. That’s funny.

Alien observers posed for pictures drawn in stone; we can’t imagine how far their technology has come. Think about it. Intergalactic travelers could be covertly immersing themselves in life on earth for fun and adventure while keeping the earthlings busy fighting each other.

Things we see throughout life, pausing to shake a head for a moment before moving on didn’t make sense until everything in my life had gone; I saw something else.

We know the universe is too large for there not to be intelligent life somewhere, if not here. If our ancient civilizations depicted astronauts, I’m guessing they didn’t leave never to return; who does that?

What would it be like to discover aliens with really nothing in common with us in charge? If they owned the world banks and controlled our food supply what else could they do without our realizing that their behavior isn’t normal for earth people. 

Frankly, in America, we don’t care who runs the show as long as we get a fair shake. Other countries allow citizens a nice life with opportunity and health care. Who with so much has so little heart to take away from the disadvantaged and elderly?

If beings from another planet were caught harming earth all people of our planet would be in the trenches together. Our differences would matter little.

Why at a time when people have the capacity to live peacefully and somewhat comfortably do we war? What do six billion dollars buy? Could a guy live on a little less for the sake of others?

In our history, we’ve always been explorers; why are we more focused on repeating our barbaric history than going into space?

I’ve taken many courses and learned of the knowledge and intelligence on this planet; we do better. Why all the out of control bad behavior? Who benefits by stirring the pot?

Worrying about this is not how I should be spending the last years of my life. What I’ve seen; I know, whether anybody believes, well, quien sabe? God has given me a purpose. Thanks.

Act Three

I am a Plebeian woman in many a marketplace examining the wares. Being of humble means I look much and purchase little. As I go I look into eyes and see the world; many souls look back, sharing their truths in a passing moment. I see hurt, love, and humanity, as well as, shame inflicted, but mostly not deserved.

I am proud of my cast, commonplace people, the salt on our table. During my productive age, I seldom looked directly into eyes; I didn’t trust, nor wanted to learn their secrets, or them to see my shame.

When you begin with little or nothing you have a plan and stay focused to get something. I believed in business old school, which meant doing my best each day, having integrity. I worked hard and managed to live a life that pleased me. I was blessed by opportunity.

Most of us don’t want to rule the world, just let me do something I can be proud of at the end of the day; it doesn’t matter what. My husband was proud to be a truck driver. He held respect within his company and his boss trusted him. As a Teamster in 705, he played his part in life, as I did as his wife.

The curtain rises on my third act: old age alone. Compliments of unscrupulous bankers, one of my least favorite presidents, and bad timing I have nothing, but thanks to Social Security am able to survive.

Ever wonder if walking off into the sunset means we die together? It didn’t; here I am. Does it matter? Why am I still here?

Act three, old and alone, who wants to see that? But wait a minute, each day holds promise, maybe not like my younger years, none the less, I see a beautiful sunrise and feel the arms of God under stars.

On the internet, I read inspired words from poets responding to their call and see what talented artists produce. I live on a tropical island, driving roads canopied with orange, purple, and white flowers in trees with trunks so wide I can but wonder what changes they’ve seen.

Enjoy the day, each day, one day in the not too distant future will be my last; this much I know. Those I loved, the comfort I strove for is gone, but there is so much value in the humble. I’m blessed when the bones don’t ache.

Travel alone I never thought I could, but adventure need not include tachycardia. Planning, budgeting, and learning about a destination give as much pleasure as the trip, well almost. So often I hit the financial wall with no way written all over it; my challenge to take a break, do something else, and come back with fresh eyes relishes the moment when doable pops into view.

Europe in 2018 what a dream I have for my third act; what do you think, a little Spain and, of course, some Italy?

Please Be Warned

People are basically good; we can be whipped into a frenzy and led to destruction but left to our own devices I find human beings to be decent and frequently kind. It’s in our nature.  

Have you ever had something nag on your mind? Your mind drifts back to an event you wish would stop, but there you go thinking about it again. You laugh out loud, which I understand to be a jail-able offense these days thanks to Mr. Sessions; but there you go with that laugh. Suddenly you feel embarrassed to have had the thought. It’s so out there, but the shimmering and displaced feelings; either you’re losing your mind or an alien energy has invaded. 

What began as a vague haunting what if takes the shape of what the  F--- and I just want to run, to hide and be safe. 

What is it they say about “All it takes is for good people to look the  other way?” 

I’m scared. This isn’t the normal energy of the planet. This is bad,  Folks. At least it’s bad for us. 

Holistic Healers on the planet know we’re in a bad energy vortex. Who wants to give this a name we can fight? Mother Earth didn’t birth this energy. 

Human beings will fight to the death over a whole bunch of things, but most of us also manage compassion. Don’t you find it odd that people we’ve  elected to serve us do everything possible to hurt us or the environment?  Surely, we’ve elected an asshole or two over the years, but a whole room full of them says something’s not right. 

What if when powerful leaders congregated, say like the inaugural in  January aliens opened a portal over the event releasing a neurotoxin that reduced empathy to one’s own species? 

Removing laws protecting the environment harms their children also. What evolved species? What did Christ teach? Buddha? Who shits in their beds?!

Picture poor people around the world living modest lives, hoping for a decent day. They travel on scooters searching for scrap discarded on the side of the road. They walk holding children’s hands. Their malls open when crafts get hung from a rope slung between two trees. 

I’ve traveled alone in a car across a modest Caribbean island getting well lost in the process. People were kind and they helped me. One man’s hand an inch above my purse as he leaned in to inspect my belongings, but he stopped traffic to get me in the right direction. He was an angel. The goodness of mankind’s nature touches me often. I’m not saying there aren’t assholes among us; we all know better. 

A percentage of humanity who have no empathy are generally the outsiders and not the community core. 

I saw the shimmering, what apparently happened I believe to be a dispensing of the toxin on inauguration day. 

I never thought I’d say this, but Republicans are right, global warming is a result of aliens dumping toxins on us through worm holes and not the stupid shit we do here. 

Post Trip Blues

We were going to weather every storm and enjoy every sunset together. Before that horrid day in July of 2013, I hadn’t thought about life without him more that briefly; I couldn’t contemplate being without my honey. 

So often one person in a relationship cares more than the other. Sometimes people take turns, but when you get it right and you both care it’s beautiful. For the rest of my life I may never have that beauty again; why wouldn’t I be sad?  

I hate being sad, during the last three years I’ve traveled to Costa Rica, Cuba, Trinidad, the Dominican Republic, New Orleans, and Orlando; all were fantastic. Living on a lush tropical island poses no hardship, so why do I think of these last years as miserable? 

Accepting my new reality is another one of those sheer cliffs to be climbed. After three years some would say not a new reality, but to me as yet unacceptable. I have a reputation for being stubborn. 

Perhaps I’m feeling post trip blues because for a month living in St. Rose, Louisiana I lived more in the moment and thought of Kirt less. 

The artwork collected at auctions with the passion of a zealot lays on the floor waiting to be re-framed. Pray, God, I live long enough to see pretty pictures on my concrete walls.  

My overall mental health can easily be identified by what I’m wearing. Days in my honey’s 1990’s cotton pants mean moody or who gives a shit.Positive days wear a new outfit and makeup. And, Friends, if there ever were an age for makeup I have surely found it. 

Would that I was an old soul with wisdom seeping out my pores, but my soul is young; I make mistakes. 

So much to see, and go, and do beg me to come and play, but a to the bone budget demands frugality. Discipline is difficult in a poor me frame of mind, but if I 

want another adventure, I’d better kiss it hello. 

Speaking of frames I lost the nails and eye hooks; I’d better learn those words in Spanish before shopping. 

Yes, it’s the post trip blues, just selecting a potential next trip has me feeling a tad perkier or maybe it’s fresh air after the rain. Today is a friend’s birthday; happy birthday, Gloria! 

We’re going for decadent chocolate cake before I hit the gym. 

Shall We Continue

Anyone who tells you being old is a state of mind isn’t yet old enough to know. At best we have aches and pains to deal with, at worst its terminal illness and death; that’s our reality.

Yesterday was my husband’s birthday; he would have been seventy-four. He turned seventy on his last live birthday; his friend, Pablo threw a fine party for him. It pleases me to remember how happy my darling was that day.

At ninety-four, my mom is healthy enough that she’s optimistically reaching for one hundred. A happy dotage living among her offspring; can you picture all the happy old bubbies/abuelas in the world? We love them. They gave shape to the character of our generation. My mom was a child of the Great Depression whose pain I could see clearly when she told stories of relief shoes and food lines.

If we were to pick a favorite, most instrumental woman in our life, mine would be my father’s sister, my aunt Margaret, who at eighty-eight begged me to help her die. I turned cold when I heard her ask. In one of my more selfish moments, I told her I couldn’t jeopardize my soul by such an act and how she could do it by herself if that was her true intention; she never did, but ten months later God took her.

At some point for all of us, the end will be the option. Deal with it or be a big pussy about it, nothing changes.

All I know is that if this is to be my last sunset, I don’t want to be in the house watching TV. To look at someone, smile, and be happy compensates for enduring many aches. To say, thank you for the small things people do for me gives me pleasure.

Blessed with the time to contemplate how others have helped me or been kind, I find myself extraordinarily grateful.

Until unable, I shall as we said in the late seventies or maybe early eighties, keep on truckin!

Remembering When

At the lowest point in my life point in my life when I needed to find my way, an almost stranger volunteered to let me stay on his sofa. I thanked the kind heart and thought about it.

From First Communion at Holy Rosary to the last cup of coffee at the Morning Call in City Park I needed New Orleans to heal my spirit. At my home in Puerto Rico I l languished; I needed to hear the trumpet play with young musicians practicing on Popp’s Band Stand.

Expecting to stay on the sofa in a cozy one bedroom apartment with an almost stranger for three months could be considered crazy. New Orleans held a collage of family memories from a time before I married. Watching horses run in the morning at the Fairgrounds, could there be a better way to spend a morning on summer vacation? I had to touch base with memories connecting me to my life before my husband.

The first night on the man’s sofa had me like a cat on a hot tin roof but became comfortable. I enjoyed hearing a masculine Southern voice and he enjoyed talking; we were off to the races. We spent a day naming hit records from the sixties; neither one of us would quit. My host tended to be competitive, which challenged me even in the depths of my lethargy. We laughed; it surprised me that I could have a good time with a strange man.

We spent too much time together becoming familiar too quickly. I don’t mean physically familiar; he was a gentleman. By our senior years, we come with some rough edges as well as lovely smoothies.

Jazz, the Blues, poetry readings, writers’ clubs, and festivals filled our time together; we laughed a lot. He loved to read to me what he’d just finished writing at two am; oddly, I enjoyed his enthusiasm and didn’t mind hearing, “Oh, you’re awake; let me read this to you.”

Our friction points could have been doused had distance been available. In the end, he thought I was calling him as he put it, a bad boy. Not at all, he’s too damn old to be called a boy, a bad man he’s definitely not; his intentions were good. We were not meant to spend three months with me on his couch, but sincerely, thanks for trying.

My husband had died a scant ten months before I arrived at your door. You have no idea how insane being alive without my soulmate felt or how much I just wanted to die. This great time for me to be in New Orleans was not a good time to flirt with getting close.

Given a different set of circumstances, I believe we could have become good friends. We could sign a non-aggression agreement in blood; what do you say? 

Not Too Bad is my Best These Days

As usual, the morning web post told me how to lose weight and reduce inflammation; apparently, I’m doing everything right. Hot dog!!

No, I’m not going to bitch about how fat I still am; I feel good and all things considered, I’m happy. But a woman likes to look good in her clothes and dumpy doesn’t do it for me. Remember the fire hydrant looking villains from Dr. Who, the Daleks? I look like a Dalek wearing a wig and a dress; that’s no one’s best image. But at sixty-eight who cares?

Hoping to go to Spain next year, so I’m practicing my Spanish attempting short sentences whenever possible, but all I hear is, “Don’t worry you don’t have to speak Spanish; I speak English.” Where were they ten years ago when my Spanish was practically non-existent? I’ve learned a good number of words in Spanish, so when someone says a whole paragraph to me and I don’t recognize a word, it overwhelms me with a feeling of stupid. 

Congratulate me for abstaining from bread for two whole, long weeks. Twice my sinuses have drained suddenly and dramatically with a foul taste in my mouth and stomach. The first time I thought it was an allergic reaction, but no swelling in the morning. After the second bout of drainage, I noticed that sinus areas were not as tender to my touch. Halleluiah! That was getting aggravating.

The results for all my hard effort came in the form of blood pressure in the normal range and reasonable test scores. My cholesterol tested a tad high, so I adjusted my diet accordingly, I believe.

Who knew I’d retire in time to be alone and almost broke trying to stay healthy, but there you have it. It’s funny that in my productive years I gained a fortune to lose it as my golden years began; what I miss most is my husband’s loving presence, but even that loss no longer holds the screaming sadness of nightmares.

It’s time to admit I’m glad to still be alive and healthy. My life has been filled with love and my career spent in pursuit of my passions; I’ve been blessed. Money comes as a byproduct of being good at something people want; it’s an ethical way to a good living. It’s also no guarantee to being able to keep what you’ve earned when rich crooks walk among us. Yes, I’m still pissed; you’d think I’d learn to get over things.

This weekend will go to the dogs, which makes me happy.

Please, enjoy yours.

Love of My Life

Morning mist clings to the lake. Chirping birds cheer my spirit. Sunlight filtered through the trees reminds me of pleasant mornings throughout my life. A new day, I can cherish or screw up any way I want; what’ll it be?

The pleasantness of morning, that’s something I seldom, had time to savor during my working years. Now, coffee and cooing doves can be leisurely enjoyed. Retirement, that’s something I didn’t really want.

After my husband, my business was the most important thing in the world to me. I enjoyed the challenge of the problems of the day and happy dogs in my care made me feel useful. Had Kirt died before I retired, I’d still be there working today, but that didn’t happen.

He could no longer tolerate cold weather; his hands turned into painful claws in fall. We couldn’t wait for winter. We had to go south. I didn’t want to leave my home of thirty years or my business that gave me a sense of self-satisfaction, but I loved my husband so much more.

Before a cold spell, we loaded the car, said goodbye, and headed to New Orleans. The Great Recession had made business difficult. Many of my clients were in financial crisis and I had to carry some of my bread and butter accounts; holding on was hard, but I managed to squeak along. Sooner or later we’d get past this, but Kirt suffered so much that fall. There was nothing else to do.

My heart beat for that man; nothing mattered except getting him where he could be more comfortable. New Orleans, a stop on the way to our house in Puerto Rico turned into the place he lost a toe. Dr. Davila of the New Orleans VA counseled me, as well as taking great care of Kirt. I’d always wanted to retire to New Orleans so when the time came to leave I went to City Park for a good pout.

Why is it you hear of so many guys retiring, moving to warm weather, and then a couple of years later you hear they died? Someone told me she heard that Smoki our cat died, that we put him to sleep. He purred on my lap well past my husband. Rumors are funny.

You never really know how some else feels, but you can get so close; it’s like you are two halves of the whole. He felt like he was in paradise the last two years of his life here where the spectacular sunrise and sunset was a pause for celebration.

His soul soared over this valley in his dreams, as his body withered.  The love of my life died.

Just Singing the Blues

In that stage grief between mourning and hope, I toss sometimes mourning and other times pleased to be alive. Let go of the past; that’s what people say. How do I let go of the best of my life?

For all the fun things he was there, loving me. I miss being loved more than anything. I never thought about loving myself. Most days I didn’t think about liking myself preferring always to focus on my shortcomings.

How do I let go of the person who loved me the most? I can’t, so I have to hold him in my heart and continue because I still have purpose in this life. Frequently, I wish my life came with a how-to manual. I struggle with damn near everything; probably that’s just me. Being with Kirt made even challenges fun, we loved life together.

I’m not sure how to go on, but three and a half years later it would seem that I’m doing so, however poorly. So this is what it means to be on the downhill slide of life with losses everywhere and days numbered. Ok, that sucks; now what?

I’m thinking New Orleans, jazz, road trip down the gulf coast of Florida, and a whole mess of oysters. What do you say?

Legacy of Love

Hi, if you’ve lost someone you truly love I don’t need to tell you how difficult it is to get back to making the best out of your life.

Three and a half years after losing my love, he’s on my mind and I’m missing him. Going here and there or doing this and that doesn’t stop the hurt.  When I manage to focus on now, when I’m in the moment I feel better, so I’m really trying.

When I was young I didn’t understand how someone could hurt you if they loved you. I felt so unloved that I believed I should have been an abortion; it would have been better for all involved.

During my married life, I grew up knowing what it felt like to be loved. That gave me the strength for every good thing I’ve done in my life. I’m a much better person because of my husband’s love.

Without him, it’s difficult to be strong, but that’s what I must do if my remaining years are going to be worth a damn. Wallowing in weakness isn’t my style; bitch about it, fix it and move on is. I mean you’ve got to bitch a little.

Vulnerability increases with age; I find that unsettling. Now, when someone pushes me beyond my comfort level or what I think to be right, I have no one to look to for support; it’s all on me. The gym is a metaphor for my life. Nobody’s going to lift this weight for me.

After singing the blues I want to thank God for putting Kirt in my life; he taught me to gaze at a flower, a sunset, a shooting star and to feel the beauty.   At three and a half years a widow walking in the shadow of death I may be approaching the ridge of acceptance.

I know love; that will stay with me. I haven’t lost it to bitterness.

To anyone reading this who has lost your soul mate, there is a world wide web of caring, love, and empathy saying,”Sorry for your loss. Be gentle with yourself.” 

Not Home Alone for Christmas

Christmas, the time of family caring and sharing comes crashing down on those of us left alone. My fourth Christmas without my husband won’t be home alone.  A flurry of activity in San Juan with a friend I met in Santo Domingo last year should occupy this holiday.

My lament when Kirt lived was we didn’t have a big family to share the holiday. His people died, mine moved away or brought the woe in woe is me. On our holidays at Starved Rock Lodge, we lounged before a roaring fire in a huge stone fireplace decorated with animal heads and garland, photographed bald eagles, and swam in an indoor pool. I loved the person I was with and now I’m alone with an acquaintance.

It sucks, right? That’s always going to suck. Being positive is a conscious choice; noticing every slight, anger at every wrong, and in general keenly observant of what is wrong is my heritage. On which side of the family I’m not going to tell you.

Work to mend the shreds of my heart continues. I choose not be melancholy; I choose to be happy. Somebody, please tell me; how do I do this? I’ve been sad so long that it feels like carrying a brick in my backpack.

On my fourth Christmas without my beloved, I’ll soak in the beauty of San Juan, while listening to the life story of a new friend. I won’t be alone. Be well.

In Memorial

Losing a friend throws you into memories wanting to reach those moments of light when your minds touched, sparking lively conversations and time well spent.

You favored Picasso; I, Dali. We championed our favorite in spirited discussion. I counted on you for that.

You told me tales of travels I dreamed of giving me inspiration. You did what interested you, making you a very interesting man.

One day you held my hand, giving me strength, as I held my husband’s hand, while he laid on a hospital gurney in a corner of an emergency room.

Your art improved, maturing with your soul; observing that enriched my spirit. Gracias, mi amigo, por todo.  Tricia Carr

PEDRO A. LOPEZ, RIP

Love Letter to My Husband

My honey, my husband, forty months ago you died. The bitter Sunday I lost you grieves me; we could be smiling and laughing still. We always did whether times were good or hard. We found something to smile about; didn’t we!

You gifted me with the sweetest soul I ever knew. Losing you cracked my hard case into pieces. Putting me back together, without your physical presence to give comfort, piece by piece has been my dark night of the soul, and a job far from done.

Since 1988 you lived with pain no one would want to imagine, but you found joy in the day. You always had something kind to say; that was your way.

As the famous Joseph Campbell taught, most people go to the right, the main stream route and a few take the path to the left. It’s a shady dirt road through a forest, and then a ridge with rocks and ocean vistas as far as the eye can see. Alone it’s just me; I’d so much rather it be we, but the path to the left suits me, as it did you.

You valued me way more than I valued myself; what did you see in me I often wondered. Everyone or most everyone, who met you, fell in love with you. All the women who sought you out drove me nuts, and yet, I wasn’t jealous. You loved me.

Alone, I’d rather be than with energy draining strangers, who showed up this day to tell me all their woes. I struggle to see the good some days, but don’t wish to share with someone who doesn’t care. They don’t want to hear me, so why should I indulge their whines?

The travel we planned, I’m doing for us. Although we never spoke of Cuba, I’ve been there. Two kindred spirits live near Havana, you would love them as I do. There is love in my life.

You know how hard I always worked and tried; those days are gone. Even my workouts at the gym are no harder than I’ll allow, but I continue to go and do. That’s where the fun is; right? 

The road less traveled, that freaking lonely road without you is still worth the trip my love. Life is a gift to honor, but I’ll miss you every step.

Moments, Precious or Not

Precious moments or not so precious moments make up our lives. I’m working hard to make more of my moments precious.

So much crap comes into each day.  Whether it’s the power went off or the loss of your BFF, it’s the bitch of the day or proof of life.

What really kills me is that at this age the odds of my demise keep going up. Who thinks much of life ending in the twenties? Okay, the depressed will.

My mom is ninety-three and counting, so I may have a longevity gene, but my dad died at forty-two. If I live until my mom’s age, that gives me about twenty-five more years.

My first twenty-five years came and went in a flash. I’ve met people more messed up by childhood, but then I sure could hold my own. If they wanted crazy, I’d show them.

Blessed are people who are interested in anyone other than themselves. Without the few adults who noticed and liked me, my childhood would have been unbearable. To those people I credit my desire to do well, and please.

So at sixty-eight and counting, I hope to focus on this being the best year I can imagine.  Days I’m out, experiencing my beautiful island, you can believe that day pleases me. The hardest days of my grief, thankfully have been endured. My question is no longer, how can I go on without my husband, but how can I best go from here.

Hope for today, hope for the future relinquished due to age appalls me. I require a new skill to adjust my expectations to what I can do. How do I challenge what’s possible?

It’s the time of year to list my goals for 2017. Just thinking about it gives me a precious moment!

Ch, Ch, Changes

I opened the closet door to bury my nose in my husband’s shirts, but he’s no longer here. Pictures of his beloved face look long ago.

Now, the time I live alone fills my days; my life is the merit of my actions. Perhaps that thought shouldn’t overwhelm as it does.

Goals have always been important to me. Lately, my goals are puny. 1) Enjoy the day. 2) Work out. 3) Travel. 4) Go to jazz festivals.

These are lovely goals for a retiree, but light weight. I always have had a cause or two aside from personal or professional goals. Contributing to the greater good, the rent we pay for our space here, have I paid my dues?

I fight for what I believe in; I’ve been part of many causes. The dog problem on the island has held my attention for ten years, but now I feel apathetic.

Malaise, melancholy smolder my life away. Missing you can’t be allowed to diminish my future. For each one of us, our life is our work of art. If I have ten or twenty years left, what do I want them to say?

Motivated, hard driving described me for decades. People frequently called me an over achiever. I identified with that; it was me. And now zip like my husband’s scent in the house.

Life After Loss

Thirty-eight months after my love passed, like a sleepwalker I open my eyes to a world without you. Each day collecting experiences, a memory without you is what I have. Nightmare of the first year eased into the sadness of the second year. Even in the third year depression owned more days than not, but I soldiered on.

Date people say; meet a new man. It will heal your heart, but I fear it only would cover the hole with Play Dough.

Besides, where in the hell does a fat old lady go to meet a man worthy of a good conversation let alone love or companionship? By this age we all come with luggage a new person could get lost in. Who needs it?

Frequently I feel that I’ve joined some old ladies club where my opinion or worth receives little value. Middle age men cut in front of old ladies in line and have the nerve to look at us like where do you have to go. The worse part is clerks will take care of them first because they look important to the clerk. Balls to that I tell you.

When your life is a struggle between I’m chicken shit and what’s a painless way to kill yourself, that’s when the vultures hit. In my case a mechanic referred to me by a friend stole all the air bags out of my SUV. A handyman hired to replace the washers in all the faucets charged me for replacement parts he returned after he turned the old washers over gaining about six weeks before I had the same problem.

These things aren’t end of the earth bad, but I was already at the end of the earth. I’ve heard similar stories of people preyed upon in their darkest hours, so at least I’m not taking it personally.

They say that the colors of our auras reflect the energies we possess. Hurt and loss are a couple of ways even a normally happy, person loses positive energy. I knew a kind hearted, good woman, who after the loss of both of her parents got lost in the valley of the shadow of death. Her energy became so dark that the dogs in the neighborhood raised their hackles and barked at her.

Until I met her I’d always thought of negative and positive in simple terms of good and bad.

Since I’ve been in this dark place dogs react to me differently. That saddens me so; I must do something about it.

My exercise program is an apt metaphor for my life: hurts like hell, demands consistency, but little by little, poco a poco, improvement. I must be patient with myself.

Choices

Cheer up; is it as easy as a pill? Or is it the same as filling your day with beauty and pleasure, only to return home to sad and lonely?

Am I just a melancholy person?  Is that my new normal? No, that can’t be me! I see beauty in the day.

Perhaps I need more respect for my feelings; the shadow of my loss looms large even after three years. What did the Beatles song say? Filling the hole where the rain came in; was that it?

Someone told me that to strive for contentment is the best I can hope for at this stage of life. In his letters I met an educated man with the perks of life whose sadness rivaled my own, but I don’t accept contentment as my ultimate for the present.

My life will never be the same without my darling, but I’d like my joy of life back. To take pleasure in the day without an immediate return to sadness would signal my next stage of healing. I yearn for it.

Daily problems, the proof of life that screws with each day don’t impact me, except sometimes to punctuate Kirt’s absence. I’m just so tired of feeling sad. To add to my burdened feelings, is guilt because I am so blessed. I’ m healthy, living on a warm island with God’s beauty in my face.

Life is always problematic; I faced challenges finding joy in the doing. How do I get back to that, when loss is beating the snot out of me?

Guidance, I pray to recognize it. Ending on a high note with hope!!

Stormy Weather

Puerto Rico is under a tropical storm; the rain beats a steady rhythm. At three o’clock on a Sunday my darling died. My throat feels ragged from screams three years old. It rained that day as well.

The scent of wet humus wafts in the window on the cool, moist air. A chill feels good to me as thunder rolls through the hills. Nothing like a lazy, rainy day, I just finished reading See How They Run by James Patterson; no wonder why I’m feeling moody.

Times of feeling alone, separated from loved ones are the most difficult to deal with; don’t you agree?

We confronted our problems admirably; dare I say with dignity. We were strong.

Alone, I’m becoming a strong woman again, but there’s little heart in it. The biggest freaking irony is that I’ve lived in my head more than my heart. My life’s process has been to learn to live more in my heart. I wanted to feel things more acutely. I had to want that! The tight rein I held over my feelings didn’t suit me.  Goodie.

At every point in my life I believed what I was doing was preparing me for my life’s purpose, which I thought to be as a dog trainer. But I’m still here, so I have further purpose, but the thought of fulfilling my destiny no longer sparks my imagination.

We had goals and dreams that we worked hard to achieve. We were always going somewhere or doing something. Things at first seldom worked out, but how sweet it is when they do. We made a nice life, but then things happened and now I’m alone.

My life partner, my best friend from grammar school, and my closest family member all died within two years. That’s more alone than I’ve ever felt.

Depression parked it’s behind on my shoulders and rides like a cowboy, but bit by bit a new woman emerges, who likes to go and do. She’s finding her strength, and hope for a meaningful life apparently springs eternal.

The rain has passed; the air is still, only a single coqui sings. I’d better go do something.

My best to you!